


Love Me Right

by alexenglish



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Fingering, Best Friends, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Stoner Sciles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 07:50:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4556610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexenglish/pseuds/alexenglish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Generally, people are attractive, all their bits and pieces. Stiles has always seemed to be attracted to everyone, which is why it isn’t a surprise when Stiles leans forward, eyes on Scott’s face as he passes the joint back to him, and says: </p><p>“Why haven’t we made out yet?” in a very serious voice. It takes all of Scott’s self control not to burst out laughing. The look on Stiles’ face is so so so intent, eyes wide and wet and blinking slowly.  </p><p>It's only a surprise that it takes until they're 17 for him to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Me Right

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to [Talking Body by Tove Lo](https://youtu.be/nlYbDjwBe2Y) and got overwhelming highschool!Sciles feels so this happened. Just. Porn with feelings.

Honestly, if Scott thinks back over the history of their friendship, he should have expected it. Stiles has always been obvious with his attraction, especially sexual attraction. Girls since he knew what his dick was, and guys more recently, eyes on asses and arms and tits at all times. A new person, a new characteristic to appreciate.

Not that it ever mattered to Scott, he was right there with Stiles, just not as vocal about it. There’s a lot to appreciate when it comes to people. Generally, people are attractive, all their bits and pieces. Stiles has always seemed to be attracted to _everyone_ , which is why it isn’t a surprise when Stiles leans forward, eyes on Scott’s face as he passes the joint back to him, and says:

“Why haven’t we made out yet?” in a very serious voice. It takes all of Scott’s self control not to burst out laughing. The look on Stiles’ face is so so so intent, eyes wide and wet and blinking slowly. 

It's only a surprise that it takes until they're 17 for him to ask.

“Because you’re my best friend,” Scott says, automatically. Scott’s had this conversation with himself before, part of his ever increasing list of Reasons Why He’s Not Allowed To Want His Best Friend. The reasons are getting more and more feeble, but being best friends is pretty much number one.

Of course, if Stiles is proposing they make out, it must not be a great excuse to begin with.

“That’s why we need to make out,” Stiles says, sincerely. The weed is making Scott hyper focus on his mouth, his pink pink pink bottom lip, begging to be bitten. It makes Scott’s mouth tingle just thinking about it.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Scott says, taking a hit to distract himself, filling his lungs with the sharp sharp smoke. When he exhales, he molds his mouth so that rings escape, fat and white, floating away.

“It makes perfect sense,” Stiles says, tilting forward. He’s hanging off the edge of the bean bag, eyes keen on Scott’s face, so keen. They’re boring into Scott, insisting. Scott blinks at him, his eyelids feel like liquid.

He bursts out laughing.

“It doesn’t,” he insists. “That’s means it makes less sense, dude. Why would we make out if we’re best friends?”

He wants to say that that’s not how it works, there’s rules. Rules that he’s implemented on himself since he was 14. Rules about attraction, and whether or not that’s something you _tell_ your best friend of 9, 10, now 12 years. It’s _not_.

“Because we can,” Stiles says. There’s a sideways smirk on his face, leering, like a fish lure, drawing Scott in. It’s probably some unwritten rule of the universe that when Stiles leans in, Scott leans in, chasing his breath.

Stiles is going to make him break the rules, Scott thinks.

The air is dense, heavy with smoke and tension. Their lips meet, pressing together, and Scott melts completely, sagging forward. His mouth is buzz buzz buzzing, tingling, starbursts behind his eyes.

Stiles makes a noise in his throat that sounds pleased, and shifts forward. Scott feels the drag of Stiles’ tongue on his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth easily, letting Stiles lick into him, tongues stroking wetly together.

His arms and legs are tingling with the excitement of it, veins quivering under his skin, pulse humming at the back of his skull. He doesn’t realize Stiles is touching him until Stiles chases the sensation of the buzzing with his fingers around Scott’s neck, gripping all the way across. It makes Scott feel pinned down, grounding him while his mind floats away and away and away.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, across his mouth. It’s wet and hot between them, like dragon’s breath, and Scott wants to reel him back in at the same time that he is oh so afraid to.

The look on Stiles’ face is unfamiliar, eyes dark, it’s almost like he’s a different person staring at Scott. It’s because Scott hasn’t had that look directed at him before; Stiles looks like he _wants Scott_.

Scott doesn’t breathe properly until Stiles moves back, again. They stare at each other for a long time before Stiles grins, breaking the tension with his dimples, eyes smiling.

“Dude,” he says, rooting around in his pocket. He pulls out his silver cigarette case, and produces another slim joint. “You’re a good kisser.”

Scott watches his hands, the way his knuckles flex under his skin, the way his tendons jump. There are thick veins that run over and down his arm, surprisingly small wrists with large forearms. Flick flick flicking the lighter. Scott blinks. Once, twice.

“You too,” he says, pushing it past the lump in his throat. Stiles’ eyebrows jump up, skeptical. “Seriously.”

“Right,” Stiles says, dragging out the ‘i’, tongue wetting his mouth. Scott can’t stop watching his lips, they way that they move, replaying the warm weight of them in his mind. When he finally looks away, Stiles is staring at him, and everything feels different.

“Sorry,” Scott says, for no reason at all. Stiles smiles again, smaller this time, and hands Scott the joint. Their hands brush, like they have a thousand times before, but this time, everything is different.

“It’s not a big deal.”

 

 

After that, it’s like Stiles is looking for an excuse to touch Scott, be near Scott. They spend a decent amount of time touching anyway, always anchored together at their hands and shoulders and hips (once, lips, Scott remembers; he can’t stop thinking about it, about their lips and the wet-hotness of it, the darkness of Stiles’ eyes).

It might be a by-product of being friends from a young age, before the no-touching rule of boyhood is established. They were so young. Young enough to shower in their swimsuits together, young enough to sleep together. They share drinks and food and joints and beers. They share inside jokes, laughing at private things loudly while everyone around them looks on.

Stiles knows Scott better than Scott knows Stiles. Stiles is a natural observer, taking it all in, cataloguing it in his mind. Information, expressions, emotions, conversations; all filed away for later.

Scott feels encased by Stiles frequently. No one touches him like Stiles does, no one bothers. No one knows his Taco Bell order without asking, not even his mom. No one knows when he’s trying to hide his emotions; no one coaxes the truth out of Scott like Stiles can.

Scott’s waiting for the confrontation, waiting for a sober Stiles to say, _about that_.

_About that day, about that kiss, about the way you couldn’t stop staring at me. About the way I looked at you, what did you feel? Did you feel it, too?_

It doesn’t come, it never comes. A day turns into a week, and everything is the same except for the touching. Stiles’ hands dragging across his shoulder, reeling Scott in. To get his attention Stiles used to snap his fingers at Scott, sharp and loud. Lately, he’s been grabbing Scott: arm, hand, neck, jaw. It’s all touching, and more touching, and every time, Scott’s heart thuds in his chest, aching.

“What’s up with you guys?” Allison asks, leaning in to pitch her voice low. Scott’s been watching Stiles talk with Lydia, his mouth moving faster than Scott can process, eyebrows jumping expressions. Her voice startles him, drawing him out of his trance.

“Sorry?” he asks, not sure what she means. Allison rolls her eyes, taps the table in front of him.

“You and Stiles?” she asks. “Finally make a move?”

The question makes Scott’s gut sink like a stone, confused.

“What?”

“Everyone knows that you, oh --” Allison’s eyes are wide, and apologetic as she cuts herself off. They dart between him and Stiles quickly, then to Lydia, obviously.

“It’s not like that,” Scott denies, automatically. It’s been something he’s been telling himself for three years. It’s not like that with Stiles. The way it was with Allison and Kira, it’s not like that with Stiles.

(It’s not like that because it’s so much more, so much deeper. What he feels for Stiles is indescribable, there aren’t words for it. He was created with these feelings. They’re written into his very being. If he stops loving Stiles, he stops existing; the world stops existing.)

“Sure,” Allison says, with a shrug. She smiles at him, wane. She doesn’t believe him.

It’s irritating, but he doesn’t know why. He’s the one lying to her, the one minimizing it. It wouldn’t change anything to admit to what she already knows, so why is he reluctant? He almost takes it back, words pushing out behind his teeth, but then, there’s a hand on his arm, heavy and warm.

“Hey, you comin’?” Stiles asks, fingers tugging. Scott feels it in his bones, nods with a slow drag of his head. He waves goodbye to Allison, and lets Stiles pull him out of the cafeteria, hand on his wrist (hand on his heart).

“Where are we going?” Scott asks, because he didn’t actually catch that, too intent on Stiles’ skin against his.

“Library,” Stiles says, but it sounds like a question, a tilt at end. “Maybe the roof -- Maybe we should --” Stiles stops and turns, hands on Scott’s shoulders, pulling him in. The only noise is Scott’s sneakers squeaking on the linoleum as he goes to Stiles, closer to Stiles, always closer. The sound of their breathing fills the air, fills the space between them.

“We should ditch,” Stiles says, teeth on his lower lip, eyes darting around, landing everywhere but Scott’s face. Scott feels off kilter, too big in his skin. There’s butterflies in his stomach, and he doesn’t have an explanation for them.

“Let’s go smoke or something,” Stiles says. “I dunno, get out of here.”

“Sure,” Scott says, with an easy shrug. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says. When he meets Scott’s eyes, he’s that different person again; the person Scott can’t read, who he doesn’t know, not really. He’s the person that’s looking into Scott, through Scott, like he’s seeing parts of Scott for the first time.

It feels terrifying.

 

 

When they get to Scott’s, they don’t smoke because Scott is down to stems, and they’re both too lazy to do anything about it. Instead, they grab snacks and watch a movie in Scott’s room, shoulders pressed together.

There’s a clinging tension around them, making Scott’s heart pound heavy in his chest. He wonders if Stiles can hear it, but Stiles is focused straight ahead on the movie. After that, Scott scoots away, suggesting video games so there’s a little space between them to breathe.

Mario Kart is an easy rhythm to get into, trash talking as they take turns beating each other. Stiles goes on a winning streak due to well-timed shells, and perfectly placed bananas, so Scott picks Rainbow Road in retaliation.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, as he drops off the edge for the fourth time as Scott easily makes the lap. Scott worked for months on being able to drive Rainbow Road, it’s his secret weapon. “This is cheating, by the way. This doesn’t mean you’re superior at Mario Kart.”

“That’s exactly what it means,” Scott says, eyes tracking Stiles’ kart on the map. Scott’s close to lapping him. As long as no shells come his way, he’ll pass Stiles in the next minute. “It’s the hardest level, I am _king_.”

“Bullshit,” Stiles grumbles, leaning forward in concentration. Scott grins at his back, kart coming closer. Stiles isn’t paying attention, too busy trying not to fly over the edge, that he doesn’t realize it’s Scott coming up behind him. Scott bumps their karts together, and Stiles goes flying as Scott cackles, racing past him.

“Cheater!” Stiles says, and pounces on Scott, 150 pounds of solid weight across his lap. Scott tosses the remote, and scrambles for purchase to push back at Stiles. They wrestle around, Stiles’ elbow in Scott’s side, Scott’s arms locking around his torso.

It’s hot, the hard press of Stiles’ body is the only thing Scott can concentrate on. The room fills with the Mario Kart music, their harsh breathing, and the pounding of Scott’s heart as he tries to pin Stiles down. Stiles is squirmy, though, wiggling out from under Scott, shoving him down, hands locking around Scott’s arms. Scott’s pinned before he realizes it, adrenaline surging through him.

Stiles looms over him, a heavy weight against his body. Scott's hard and aching between them. He doesn't know when that happened.Without thinking about it, Scott arches up into Stiles, breath stuttering out from between his lips; Stiles is solid and yielding and Scott can _feel_ that he’s just as hard as Scott is.

Stiles’ hands tighten on Scott’s arms, eyes darker than Scott has ever seen them, mostly pupil. He looks like that different person again, the lines of his face sharper at this angle, staring at Scott like he wants to do _something_.

Stiles’ tongue darts out, a slow swipe that leaves his bottom lip glistening.

Their hips rock together as he grinds down, and Scott screws his eyes shut. Stiles drops his weight over Scott, rocks into him again. Scott can feel everywhere they’re pressed together, every point where Stiles shifts. Their hips knock together, dicks rubbing in their jeans, their thighs touch, their stomachs brush. Stiles’ dick is hot, and so hard against Scott’s. The denim is uncomfortable, but it’s tight around Scott’s dick, and he knows he could come like this, with Stiles rubbing against him.

They pant in unison. Stiles moves his hands, loosens his grip, so that he can drag them down Scott’s arms and grab Scott’s wrists. He pulls Scott's arms up so they’re next to Scott’s head, hands tightening on his wrists once Stiles has him pinned down. The movement rucks Scott’s shirt up, and Stiles looks down, watching their bodies thrust together.

He moves his hips in a tight circle, deliberately. Scott exhales, trying not to make a noise, worried he’s going to disturb the moment. They’re not talking, not looking at each other. It’s like they’re pretend this isn’t happening. The fragility it all is so terrifying.

They’re breaking every single rule.

It doesn’t take long for the pressure to start to overwhelm Scott, the friction just right when Stiles shifts his hips. They rock together, faster and harder. The air is warm, too warm, the tension mounting, drawing taut like a rubber band.

Stiles is the one who makes a noise first, a tight whimper in his throat as he thrusts against Scott, needy. Scott lifts his hips, presses back hard, feels the orgasm draw his balls up tight. When Stiles comes, he’s looking down, but Scott can see the way his eyelashes flutter in relief; he can feel Stiles’ fingers tighten on his wrists.

Stiles doesn’t stop moving, just drags their dicks together until Scott tenses, eyes screwed shut tight. When he comes it’s a crash of relief like a tidal wave, warm and wet in his pants.

His fucking _pants_.

They don’t say anything.

Stiles rolls off him, and lays on the floor, chest rising and falling sharply with every breath. A tightness sneaks into Scott’s chest, and Scott can’t bring himself to look at Stiles because he has no idea what to _do_. He slings his arm over his eyes, and concentrates on getting his lungs to regulate oxygen.

That was intense, weird, even. They're changing everything.

It’s only a few seconds before Stiles gets up, and goes out the door, into the hall. When the bathroom door shuts behind him, Scott strips down quickly, grabbing a new pair of boxers and pulling his pants back on before Stiles is out.

Everything feels different when he stands up. He feels bigger, somehow, heavier. It’s all wrong, Scott thinks, looking at the TV. The demo keeps playing over, and over, Yoshi bouncing in his kart happily.

They should talk, they should --

Scott turns towards the door the same moment Stiles comes out of the bathroom, and they stare at each other, frozen. Scott opens his mouth to say something, _anything_ \--

“I should go,” Stiles says, licking his mouth, fingers pointing to his backpack on the floor. Scott’s stomach lands somewhere around his feet, heavy like lead.

“R-Right,” he says, grabbing Stiles’ backpack and handing it to him. Stiles looks at his hand on the strap, shifts forward nervously, and grabs it from Scott. Their hands don’t touch.

“I just told my dad I’d cook,” Stiles says, pulling on his backpack. His eyes roam from the TV to the floor, down the hall, already turning down the hall to leave. A getaway if Scott ever saw one.

“Okay,” Scott says, unable to say anything else. Not that he had a speech prepared, but Scott wants to know _why_ and _how_ , all of the important details of orgasming with your best friend. Stiles doesn’t want to talk about it, apparently, waving at Scott awkwardly, before trotting down the stairs. Scott doesn’t bother following to walk him out, just stands there as the door closes behind Stiles.

 

 

Scott wakes up feeling sick, and jittery with anxiety. There aren’t any texts from Stiles, no explanation waiting to greet him when he wakes up. That isn’t reassuring. Scott doesn’t know what to do, it feels like he fucked up. He was willing to talk, though. After making out, Scott figures it has to be normal to want to explore _more_.

It’s not like they’re getting laid all the time, both of them single and seniors and they have _each other_. There’s some level of attraction, there has been for a long time. Apparently, that’s enough to have Stiles running away with his tail tucked between his legs, though. Scott doesn’t know what to do with that, doesn’t know how to feel about it.

Of course, that doesn’t stop him from rolling over, and pulling the lube out of his drawer, intent on getting rid of his morning wood before he gets up. He’s already down the rabbit hole when it comes to his rules about Stiles, so _why not_? The memories of the afternoon before are at the forefront of his mind as he slicks his hand, and rubs himself, fist tight and familiar.

He’s not going to forget Stiles’ hips against his anytime soon. The way the air in the room was warm and tense. Scott thinks about Stiles over him, pressing him down, grinding their hips together expertly. It was tight and controlled, body waving as they rocked together.

Scott thinks about Stiles actually fucking him, and moans outright, hand tightening on his dick before he thinks, _fuck_ _it_. His hand drops down, back over his balls, eyes screwing shut as he teases his hole with his middle finger, thinking about Stiles and Stiles’ hands on him. He exhales, and his finger sinks in, slick with lube.

It’s warm, and it feels so fucking good when he gets his hand back on his dick, rocking up into his fist and back onto his finger. The sensation isn’t what he expected, it’s better, pressing in and pressing in, making him throb and clench for more. Scott thinks about Stiles between his legs, hovering over him like he was yesterday, fucking his fingers into Scott. He thinks about the way Stiles would look at him, dark and wanting and demanding.

Would Stiles watch, leaning back so he could see his fingers disappearing inside Scott? Would he press them close, kiss Scott through it, as he added more fingers, as Scott got desperate and fucking back on his knuckles?

He’s so caught up in the feeling, the pressure sending pleasure skittering up his spine, sparking behind his eyelids, he doesn’t realize that his door is opening until he hears Stiles say, “oh _fuck_.”

Scott’s hand moves off his dick and _out of himself_ immediately, dragging a pillow over his lap, but he’s pretty sure the damage is done already. Stiles’ eyes are wide, but he hasn’t left, gaze firmly on Scott’s face; deliberately on Scott’s face, maybe.

“What --” Scott asks, heart rabbiting in his chest. He’s still hard, and aching, trying to blink away the fog of horniness and concentrate. Stiles is hovering in the doorway, staring at him, and Scott is only half convinced he’s not a fantasy lovingly rendered in 3D for Scott to jerk off to.

“I wanted to talk,” Stiles says, eyes darting down and back up, widening at Scott. “About last night, since I knew your mom worked early and --” Stiles digs his spare key out of his pocket and wiggles it frantically, before shoving it back in his pants. His eyes dart down to the pillow again, before meeting Scott’s gaze again, wincing. There’s a stain of blotchy red on his cheeks.

“We should talk,” Scott says.

“Maybe after?” Stiles suggests. “I mean, I can leave, or --”

“You should stay,” Scott says, shifting back, so that he’s sitting up more, not as obviously splayed on the bed. The pillow presses into his persistent hard on, and Scott tries not to groan at the contact, eyes fluttering.

“I’m not having this conversation while you’re under distress!” Stiles says, teeth biting into his bottom lip.

“The only distress I feel is just how fucking turned on I am,” Scott grumbles, lifting the pillow to squeeze the base of his dick. His hard on is waning, but it’s not completely gone. Not even close. This boner could weather a snowstorm. “Distressed, and aroused.”

“Would you say you’re disroused?” Stiles asks, shifting towards Scott.

"I really wouldn't," Scott says, eyes on Stiles. The way Stiles is looking back at him feels like a physical weight, sending shivers over Scott’s skin. He’s all too aware of his nakedness; there’s goosebumps on his skin from the air conditioning.

“I should do something about this,” Scott says. Stiles’ eye widen, wetting his lips with his tongue.

“Do you want help?” Stiles asks, shifting closer. Scott grins at him, relief making his stomach feel fuzzy, full of cotton.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

“Smooth,” Stiles says. He steps closer, toeing off his shoes as he goes. Without being prompted, he drags his shirt off, revealing his surprisingly broad shoulders, and his pale, smooth skin. Scott inhales sharply when Stiles’ hand goes to his button, and pops it open.

“This okay?” he asks, pulling down his zipper. Scott doesn’t understand the hesitation, but he doesn’t ask, just nods, eyes glued to Stiles’ long fingers on his waistband. He doesn’t bother drawing it out, pushing down his briefs and jeans. He’s chubbed up, thickening against his leg as he kneels on the end of the bed.

His right hand circles Scott’s ankle, left anchored on the outside of Scott’s thigh, the brief touch sending shivers up Scott’s spine. It’s the anticipation, it has to be. Stiles doesn’t look at him, moves his hand from Scott’s ankle, trails his fingers up Scott’s leg, carefully, slowly.

The only sound in the room is their breathing, heavier from Scott, expectant. Stiles runs his fingers up the inside of Scott’s leg, trails his fingertips in circles on the inside of Scott’s knee. It’s tender in a way that Scott wasn’t expecting, deliberate. He dips his head down, runs his lips in the same path his fingers took, pressing a chaste kiss to Scott’s knee.

“I want this,” Stiles says, almost too low for Scott to hear. Scott feels the confession on his skin, it hangs in the air around them.

“What?” Scott asks, exhaling as Stiles’ hand skitters up his thigh, closer to his dick. He heard, he just doesn’t know if he believes Stiles.

“I want you,” Stiles says, looking up at Scott. The pink on his cheeks is even more noticeable up close, spreading down his neck in that familiar irregular pattern. There’s a flush on his knuckles when he drags them on the inside of Scott’s thigh, so close -- “I’ve _wanted_ you.”

There’s a hard knot in Scott’s throat that he has to swallow around before he speaks, mouth too dry. His heart is fluttering fast like a hummingbird’s, he has no idea how he missed that. Were there clues? Has Stiles said anything? _Done_ anything? No, he doesn’t think so; he doesn’t know.

“For how long?” Scott asks. The answer doesn’t come immediately, Stiles is too busy dragging the pillow off Scott’s lap, exposing him. Scott fights the urge to cover himself, forces himself to stay still as Stiles’ eyes rove over his frame.

“Remember when we were 13, and you spent the summer at your dad’s?” Stiles asks, he shifts so he’s centered between Scott’s legs, both hands on either of Scott’s thighs, stroking and gripping, like he doesn’t know what he wants to do.

“You came back with muscles, and tan,” Stiles licks his lips, and his hand comes up to grip Scott’s dick lightly. It’s the barest of touches, but Scott still hisses and arches into it. “That was the summer you buzzed your head.”

“Because I missed you,” Scott reminds him, because he had missed Stiles, so he took a pair of clippers to his hair on the patio of his dad’s condo, looking in the sliding glass door so he didn’t miss any spots.

“Because you missed me,” Stiles says, jerking Scott’s dick slowly. His erection had waned, but Stiles’ hand makes Scott instantly hard again, aching. Stiles is hard too, cock red and swollen between his legs. It’s long, and skinnier than Scott’s, fat at the top, and glistening with precome already. Scott wants to put his mouth on it, wants to taste Stiles.

“What about it?” Scott asks, impatiently. Stiles smirks at him, tightening his hold and twisting his wrist, harder and faster than before.

“That’s when I figured out I was bi,” Stiles says, scooting closer, leaning close to Scott, face-to-face.

They don’t kiss. Stiles breathes over his jaw, and runs his nose across Scott’s neck, teeth nipping every so often. It’s electric, making Scott’s skin break out in goosebumps. Stiles’ hands aren’t doing anything with intent. He’s tugging at Scott’s dick, then moving over his hips, gripping, trailing over his side.

Every touch feels like so much more than just a touch, like Stiles is reaching into him, soothing him over. His fingers move over his pelvic bone, the crease of his thighs. His knuckles nudge up against Scott’s balls, as he drags his fingers further back.

“You’re covered in lube,” Stiles says, lips dragging over the shell of Scott’s ear. Scott doesn’t comment, brain short circuiting as Stiles sucks his earlobe into his mouth. It’s wet and hot, making his whole body tingle as Stiles drags his teeth over the skin, sucks it into his mouth. Stiles’ fingers dip lower, teasing the swell of his ass. Scott exhales, shaking, every nerve standing at attention.

“Were you fingering yourself?” Stiles asks, forehead pressing against Scott’s shoulder, as his fingers prod, nudging against Scott’s rim where he’s still slick with lube. Incriminating, really. His breath fans over Scott’s skin, humid.

“Maybe,” Scott says, whimpering as the tip of Stiles’ finger sinks into him slightly.

“Can I finger you?” Stiles asks, head popping up so he can look Scott in the eye. The blush on his cheeks is dark, eyes hooded and wanting. There’s that person again, but Scott’s beginning to recognize that look; the pure, unadulterated desire. This is a Stiles that wants Scott, and doesn’t try to hide it.

Scott nods quickly, grabbing at the lube that’s half shoved under the blankets. Stiles licks at his lips again, hand clenching at the bottle.

“You should turn over,” Stiles says. “I think it’s more comfortable that way.”

“Are you going to fuck me, Stiles?” Scott asks, trying to ignore the way his pulse jumps in excitement at the idea. Stiles on top of him, inside of him, covering him, claiming him. Connecting with Stiles like _that_.

There’s a heavy pause, Scott watches Stiles’ adam’s apple bob in this throat, once, twice.

“If you want me to.”

“Yeah,” Scott admits, feeling too hot, embarrassed. The air around them is so tense, it feels like he’s swimming, underwater, ears ringing with how hard his heart is pounding.

“Awesome,” Stiles exhales, and grabs Scott’s hips. Scott flips easily, feeling his stomach fizzle with embarrassment as he presents his ass to Stiles. If the strangled noise is anything to go by, Stiles doesn’t mind.

The cap of the lube cracks loudly in the silence, over the sounds of their breathing.

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks.

“Yes, just fuck me, Stiles,” Scott says, hips twitching back. He’s on edge, waiting for any kind of touch. He’s too keyed up to wait, desperately wanting _something_ to happen. He wants Stiles inside him, it feels like he’s been waiting his whole life for Stiles to just _fuck him_.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Stiles’ fingers run down his crack, cold with lube, but so slick. There’s a copious amount, Scott feels it on Stiles’ fingers as they catch his rim.

“One at a time,” Scott says, but Stiles is already sinking a finger into him. His body gives with little resistance, probably just from how turned on Scott is; his whole body is aching, shaking, wanting it. Stiles grabs his hip, smears lube on his skin. It’s hotter now, that it was before, sweat prickling at Scott’s hairline and his lower back.

“Fuck,” Scott says, as Stiles slides his finger back and forth and back and forth and back -- So slowly, Scott thinks he’s going to combust, the drag of his finger so good inside of him. It’s not enough, though, not enough to fill Scott up, to make him come.

“Can I do another one?” Stiles asks, reading Scott’s mind. Scott nods fiercely, throat closing up as he feels Stiles’ second finger bump up against his rim. He breathes slowly as Stiles pushes in, whimpering as he’s stretched and filled.

“You look so good, Scott,” Stiles whines, as he fucks his fingers in and out of Scott. “I could do this all day. You take it so well. Fuck. Have you done this before? Have you fingered yourself before?”

“N-no,” Scott says, resisting the urge to slam back into Stiles’ hand, letting him control the pace. He needs it harder, faster, but it’s better to let Stiles decide, let him dictate when Scott gets to come. “Just today.”

“Why today?” Stiles asks, startings fingering him faster. There’s a zap of pleasure up Scott’s spine when he nudges deeper, making Scott’s legs feel watery and shaky. Vaguely, Scott thinks _prostate_. Less vaguely, he moans loudly, thighs trembling.

“Thinking about you,” Scott says. It sounds like it’s been torn out of him, ragged around the edges. Scott’s vision is going blurry with pleasure. He can feel his body responding, loosening for Stiles’ fingers. It’s so good, so fucking good, and he needs more.

“Oh fuck, Scott,” Stiles says, groaning. His forehead feels slick when he presses it to Scott’s back. It’s scorching in the room, sweat and lube everywhere. Scott is hyperaware of his dick between his legs, begging to be touched.

“I wanted to see if I could open myself up,” Scott continues, biting his lip as Stiles speeds up, fingers banging against his prostate. His arms start shaking. The sensations are overwhelming. Scott wants to crawl away and push back, wants less and more at the same time. “For you.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles says, exhales loudly against Scott’s back, fucking into him harder. Scott’s back arches as Stiles draws back, plunges in, lifts his fingers, nails his prostate. He sinks another finger into Scott, and that’s tighter, so much more. Stiles tugs against Scott’s rim until Scott’s body yields, and then goes back to driving into him.

“Stiles, Stiles, Stiles,” Scott says, desperately; needy and breathless and wreck. “I’m going to come.” He shoves his hips back, trying to nudge Stiles deeper, trying to get the right friction. Stiles pulls out completely, and Scott gasps at the loss, body clenching down on the air, needing more.

“Sorry, shit, sorry,” Stiles says, shoving at Scott’s hip, so that Scott turns over. Scott goes easily, head too fuzzy, body too sensitive to protest. Once Scott is on his back, Stiles’ left hand slides slick, under his hips, lifting him up, while he sinks two fingers back into Scott.

The pressure builds up again, body taking and taking and taking. Stiles is watching him with wide eyes, and a slack mouth. Scott can’t meet his gaze as he squirms on Stiles’ fingers. It’s easier to slam his eyes shut, throw his head back. Stiles’ face is branded behind his eyelids, though: almost surprised that he’s here with Scott, and _god_ , Scott gets it.

It’s almost surreal to think that it’s _Stiles_ fingering him open; _Stiles’_ name that he can’t stop saying, choking the word off in his throat when Stiles drops his hip, and grabs his dick. He jerks him off and fingers him in tandem, awkward and off kilter, like he can’t quite figure it out, but it’s the best thing Scott has ever felt. He groans, unable to keep quiet, body keyed up, about fall over the edge.

“Fuck, you should come,” Stiles says, voice rough and deep. “Scotty, you should come for me.”

“Please,” he adds, desperately.

Scott comes.

 

 

“We didn’t fuck,” Scott says, breathing heavy. He’s covered in come, both his own and Stiles'. It hadn’t taken much after Scott came, Stiles just shot up and jerked off quickly, Scott’s name on his lips as he added to the mess on Scott’s stomach. The room is hot, and smells like musk and sex and Stiles and lube and Scott is so fucking happy it feels like there’s sunshine in his rib cage.

Stiles is on his side next to him, fingers dragged lazily up and down his arm, kissing and biting his shoulder absent mindedly. Stiles hums, laces their hands together.

“There’s time,” he says, lowly. His voice still sounds like cigarettes and whiskey, and Scott is tempted to goad him into dirty talking, just to get them riled up again.

“Is there?” Scott asks, sitting up so he can grab a discarded shirt from the floor and wipe himself up; jizz thick and sticky and gross. When he looks bad at Stiles, there’s a guarded expression on his face, body tense. He looks like he wants to bolt again.

“That was a serious question,” Scott says, wadding the shirt up and throwing it in the corner. He moves closer to Stiles, kneeling on the bed, so he’s looming over him. He lays his hands on Stiles’ cheeks, cradles his face in his hands. The moment feels soft and intimate, Scott feels like he's floating.

“Of course,” Stiles says, as his eyelids flutter shut. He misses Scott’s grin, but not the kiss Scott presses to his mouth, gently.

“I broke my rules,” Scott says, when they pull apart. He doesn’t go far, Stiles’ hand circles his wrist, keeps him close. Scott wonders if Stiles can feel the way his heart is jumping under his skin.

“What rules?”

“My rules about not being attracted to my best friend,” Scott admits, sinking down so he can bury his head in Stiles’ neck, nudge the hot skin with his nose, drag his lips over his adam’s apple. Scott’s going to touch him all the time; he’s going to touch Stiles in ways he never thought he would; he’s going to touch him so much, neither of them will know where one ends and the other begins.

“There’s new rules now. Boyfriend rules,” Stiles says, jostling Scott so that his head tips back, so that Stiles can grab his jaw, steer him into another kiss. This one is more, full of intent and promise.

Scott can deal with new rules, especially if they’re Boyfriend Rules.

**Author's Note:**

> [come cry about Sciles with me](http://queerlyalex.tumblr.com/)


End file.
